Sun Set
by avocadomoon
Summary: Chris is the only one who doesn't treat Wyatt like an eighteen-year-old widower, probably because Chris is the coldest motherfucker in the entire known universe, and he means that with affection. Wyatt finds it really refreshing. [for alexisriver song, chocobox 2019]


It's always just been sort of a background fact of his life that he's never bothered to waste much thought on, which may or may not say something about his priorities. His hair is blonde, he's got his mom's last name, and his soulmate is dead. So what.

His mark turned black when he was six which was apparently a big deal at the time, and everyone still talks about it like it was this big tragedy when Wyatt himself doesn't even remember it, which has been the most distressing part of the whole thing - having to explain over and over, reassure everyone constantly that he's not pining his life away or whatever. He doesn't even know who it was - is he _supposed_ to feel bad? It sucks that they died, of course. They probably were just a kid, too. But what is Wyatt supposed to do about it? Mourn for someone he doesn't know and never will?

His father gets kind of upset when he talks about it like that, wincing and sighing and shooting _looks_ over at Mom like Wyatt's just said something Very Concerning that they Need to Talk About. Mom and the aunts always just look kind of harried and sad when the topic comes up, but that isn't all that different from the normal day-to-day and it's not like Wyatt can keep track of all the different things that are stressing them out. It could be, quite literally, _anything._

Chris is the only one who doesn't treat Wyatt like an eighteen-year-old widower, probably because Chris is the coldest motherfucker in the entire known universe, and he means that with affection. Wyatt finds it really refreshing.

"I could probably figure out who it was, if you wanted," Chris once suggested, casually, as if discovering the identity of one's soulmate before actually meeting them wasn't one of the greatest mysteries of the modern world. "Maybe if we scried for them with a sample of your skin taken directly from the mark, it would lead us to a gravesite or a - "

"No," Wyatt said, cutting him off before it gets any grosser. "Thanks, but no thanks, bro."

"Well _I_ wouldn't want to know. But I know you get all goopy," Chris said with a shrug.

"Fuck you," Wyatt said, punching Chris' shoulder. Chris knocked his arm away with an unrepentant laugh, and the subject was thus dropped.

Chris himself still has a mark, an incredibly intimidating sigil on the inside of his left forearm, which their parents forbade them from researching for years. Which of course only made them more curious, and so when they were in eighth grade they sneaked into the library at Magic School after one of their stupid Magical Ethics lessons with Aunt Paige and looked it up. It's the principle rune to summon Astarte, who was a Greek goddess who later became a demon, or maybe a demon who pretended to be a goddess, depending on which text you believe. Wyatt thought that was incredibly freakin' cool - a demonic rune was _so_ much more badass than his own mark - a boring little rose on his ankle. The way it turned black, burning into his skin the day his mysterious soulmate passed away made it a _little_ bit cooler, but - still not as cool as Chris'.

Chris has never blinked an eye, of course. "Well - of course she's a demon," he says, like that's just, like, _whatever._ No big deal. "Or someone who worships a demon."

"Maybe it's a 'he'," Wyatt will say, intending to goad him, but Chris just rolls his eyes and changes the subject. Stuff like that never phases him either, of course. Wyatt admires this about his brother at the same time that it worries him - _concerns_ him, watching Chris get taller and stronger and sharper, only a year behind him in age but sometimes seeming so much older in practice. The way he talks, sometimes, hits Wyatt in a scary place - rises the hair on the back of his neck. Not in a bad way - but in the way it was sitting in that library, looking up that rune, watching his thirteen-year-old little brother read the entry out loud without flinching even once.

_While there are no known records of this entity having manifested on our plane, the summoning ritual is unusually precise, an indication of dedicated worship in modern times. If there are modern day cults dedicated to Ashtoret ('Athtart, also referred to as Astarte in mortal texts) they are undoubtedly very secretive, and most assuredly demonic. While she is referred to as an angel in the _Babyloniaca_ (sacred magical histories, as recorded by high priest-historian Berossus - see ch13 Disguised History: How Our Ancestors Hid in Plain Sight), the Christian Bible refers to her as Canaanite goddess, but conflates her name with the Hebrew word for "shame," most likely as a reaction to her cults of worshippers. Several Books of Shadows recovered from the ruins of ancient cities (the family text of Haremakhet being the most well-known) contain entries on Ashtoret that refer to her as a 'demon of unimaginable cruelty and savageness,' who 'seduced men into wickedness' and 'painted her body with the blood of dead wives' [sic]. Furthermore, modern day witness accounts have identified her name - and her closely associated runes and sigils - on the altars of many upper level demons._

("Your soulmate's a sex goddess, dude," Wyatt whispered, still deathly afraid of the librarian - known to turn you into a rubber band ball if you talked too loud during Free Reading - but trying not to show it.

"A sex _demon,_ actually," Chris had replied, unabashed, at full volume. Thirteen, and already out of his mind. Wyatt's always been sort of in awe.)

Anyway. Wyatt is split on the opinion of who she is, whoever she is, who gave Chris that scary, badass rune. Some days he thinks Chris is headed for some real fucked up heartbreak - and others, when Chris softens his edges and dares to show that big, raw, beating heart of his - he thinks, _maybe. Maybe fate's not that cruel._ He certainly deserves more from it than an evil sex demon who will use his blood as eyeshadow, that's for sure.

"It pairs us up," Chris will say sometimes. "Yours is dead, mine is evil. We're a matched set, Wy."

"You don't _know_ that," Wyatt insists. "She could be a reformed demon worshipper."

"Or just a gothy mortal who accidentally checked out the wrong book," is Chris' go-to joke. He says that enough - some variation on 'unlucky human who doesn't deserve my shit' - that Wyatt knows _that's_ what he's really afraid of: being linked for life to an innocent.

Wyatt gets it. For Chris, there could be no greater nightmare. A demon, he could handle.

It does drive Wyatt up the wall, the way everyone else talks about the concept. The movies and the romance novels, the long drawn out dramas about mismatched couples, sad black-marked orphans who die of cancer in the end, and _God,_ just _so many_ WWII soulmate movies that always seem to win Oscars no matter how stale the plot always is. Maybe that's why Chris' stark cynicism always makes him feel better - or maybe it's that this is the rare arena of life where Chris allows him to truly do the _big brother_ thing - the "buck up, kid" talks, the quiet sympathy, pat-you-on-the-shoulder make-you-some-tea routine. Wyatt feels so much more useful when he's taking care of somebody - but Chris allows him to do it so rarely that it always feels like a gift. Even when it's about something as bleak as their depressing soulmarks.

It's just. Well, it's only that - theirs is a lucky family, in that aspect. Their parents are marked, and seem blissfully happy together even though they regularly have frozen, deathly silent fights that often drag out into weeks on end. Mom in the kitchen, angrily baking a mountain of desserts, and Dad out in the living room reading with Melinda or helping Wyatt with Organic Chem or arguing about politics with Chris - his smile getting tighter and tighter with every metallic bang and slam that floats in through the doorway. But the point is that they always make up - and isn't that the more important point? Wyatt's always been able to tell when they have a really good day, because Mom will wear a short-sleeved shirt so the whole world can see her mark: a robin's egg blue star, on the exact middle point of her shoulder. Dad's is a matching crescent moon, in a silver so deep that it seems to shine in the right light, and he never leaves it covered.

Wyatt doesn't believe you need a soulmate to fall in love. If he believed _that,_ his life would be _really_ depressing - and yet, somehow, seeing his parents slow dancing in the garden, hearing them laugh together in bed at night through the vents in the upstairs bathroom - it's still a comfort. A blessing to have grown up with living proof that destiny is sometimes kind, and fair, and right.

"Melinda told me today that she thinks your soulmate's a vampire," Chris tells him, on one of these nights. They're up late in the garden, and their parents are already asleep. Melinda's at Aunt Phoebe's for the weekend. Tomorrow is the solstice, and Chris turns eighteen at noon. There's a lot to do. "I think she's really into those books you gave her."

Wyatt preens a little. He's the only one who can pick out books Mel will actually read. If Chris is the most cynical, and Wyatt is the most sensitive, then Melinda's the pickiest. That, she definitely gets from Mom. "Now there's a theory I like. Maybe it's Buffy!"

"Buffy was the vampire _killer,_ idiot," Chris says fondly, thrusting a bundle of wild celery into Wyatt's hands. "Put these with the anise - _not_ with the sweet grass. That needs to stay separate for the - "

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Wyatt grumbles, sorting them carefully into the separate bundles. Technically, Mom could ground them for doing this, since they're technically not supposed to mess around with aura magic until they're of age, which Chris still _technically _isn't. But they've done much worse than a mild blessing to invite luck and prosperity, which is mostly just to (hopefully) influence the results of their university applications, which are due to start rolling in any day now. Wyatt split the odds and applied to almost twenty different places, but Chris only sent in one - the College of William & Mary in Virginia, one of the oldest universities in the United States and - more relevant to Chris' interest - the only one founded by a witch. There is, apparently, a longstanding magical population there - rivaled only by Magic School (which isn't exactly a _thriving _community, considering how many times it's been hijacked by demons).

Wyatt doesn't really think Chris needs a blessing spell to get in. But he's never seen him so nervous about anything, so it's the least he can do.

"I think that's enough," Chris says, mostly to himself, rocking back on his knees and brushing the dirt from his hands. The current state of their garden is mostly Wyatt's doing - not that it was terrible before, when Mom tended most of it - but Wyatt's got a knack for it. Not to toot his own horn, or anything, but he's the only one who's managed to keep a hawkweed plant alive. So, there's that. "Now we just have to braid the wheel."

Wyatt's already started, laying the sweet grass out into a rough approximation of a circle. This is the part that Mom doesn't like - for whatever reason she's always turned her nose up at the more spiritually Wiccan, pagan-ish side of magic. Bonfires and aura blessings and effigies and all that. The _fun stuff,_ in Wyatt's opinion. "I'll do it. I'm better at it."

Chris huffs, but doesn't argue the point. Instead, he collapses into a heap on the grass, propping his head on one hand to watch. The rest of their herbs - for the fire they'll start, in the middle of the sweet grass braid - float into a neat pile at the edge of the patio, prompted by a lazy wave of Chris' hand. "It _is_ a theory you haven't considered, you know," he says. "That they could have died _temporarily._ We didn't even think about that."

Wyatt shakes his head. The thought has definitely occurred to _him,_ even if he didn't say anything to anyone else. "That's not really a road I wanna go down, if you know what I mean."

"Sure," Chris says, rolling over onto his back. The garden is dimly lit from the lights from the conservatory, the doors to the patio propped open by an old brick. Wyatt can see the stars faintly, but Chris always squints at everything, no matter how dark or bright the room is. Wyatt's got a running bet with Dad on how long it'll take him to admit that he needs reading glasses. "Would be cool, though," he adds after a moment. "Way more badass than a sex demon."

"Still think she's gonna be a goddess," Wyatt says lightly, picking up the first bunch to start braiding. This is the hardest part - the beginning.

"Because you're a sap," Chris says with a laugh. He shakes his head. "I'm jealous sometimes, you know. You've got so much _freedom,_ Wy. You could fall in love with anybody."

Wyatt pauses for a second, struck by something in his voice. "That's one way of looking at it, I guess. You really do think she's gonna be evil, don't you?"

Chris turns his head away and shrugs, but it's too late - Wyatt saw it in his face.

Wyatt always thought he really was joking about that. "You really don't know, Chris. The sigil could mean _anything._"

"Yeah," Chris says flatly. He pulls his feet up, angling his knees towards the sky, and tucks his arms behind his head. "And you don't secretly, deep deep down, _really_ want to know who yours was."

Wyatt glares at the side of his head. "Shut up," he mutters, and jerks his focus back to the braid.

Chris is silent for a long stretch of time - a slightly guilty silence, if Wyatt is gauging it right. He keeps braiding, stubbornly, refusing to give him the out.

Finally, a sigh. "Sorry," Chris says, a bit sulky. "I've been reading a lot about magical soulmates, lately. Guess it got kind of dark."

"Well, no shit," Wyatt blurts. There's a reason Leo and Piper are lucky. Soulmate couples who both have magic are almost always on opposite sides, which would explain a lot about Chris' mark - though Wyatt still thinks Chris could be the exception, too. "No wonder you've been in such a shitty mood."

Chris sighs again, deeply. "Sorry."

Wyatt lets that sit for a minute, braiding the grass together with even, measured twists of his hands. He likes gardening a lot. If he thought he could make a living like that - just growing shit in the backyard - he'd do it in a second. Med school still seems a tad more lucrative, though, at the end of the day. "You're gonna get in, man."

"That's not what it's about!" Chris groans. "Don't start."

"Start what? I didn't say anything!"

"I don't need a _pep talk,_" Chris says, with sharp disdain. Wyatt bites back a grin. "I know I'm gonna get in, okay? Aunt Pheebs had a vision."

"Visions can be wrong sometimes," Wyatt teases. "Maybe you left a typo in your essay, maybe you came on too strong in the interview - "

"Ugh, shut _up._"

"I'm just saying it would be understandable to be nervous, but since you know you're gonna get in, written in stone and everything - whatever." Wyatt shrugs, finishing up the braid with a satisfied little smile. "You certainly don't need _my_ encouragement and support."

"You're such a pain in my ass," Chris grouses, pushing himself up. "Are you done? Finally? Took you long enough."

"Shut up," Wyatt says, laughing at him. Chris tucks a grin into the corner of his mouth, sly like he always is. His jokes are more like clues - you have to look for them. "C'mon, we better do it on the concrete. Mom will kill us if we kill any of the tulips."

Quickly and quietly, they set up the blessing: the salt, then the sweet grass, then the herbs in the middle. Wild celery, anise, sage (the one's mostly for the smell) and a bit of vervain - Chris' favorite. They used a chunk of wood from a cherry tree, for Wyatt's eighteenth birthday. Chris said it was "more fitting," and refused to explain why.

The blessing itself is in Latin, which is another reason Mom doesn't like it - too _weird,_ even for her. Chris recites it perfectly, without even having to refer to notes (Wyatt's only a little jealous - he'd written his on the inside of his arm, and had to start over halfway through because he fucked up the pronunciation on _abstergo_, and Wyatt starts the fire with a little trick spell Aunt Paige taught him. It bursts into a blue flame, flaring brightly with the added spike of Chris' incantation, and then dampens itself almost instantly, the herbs vanishing into a scorched pile of ash, a perfect circle on the concrete patio.

Chris and Wyatt kneel there, on opposite sides, for a long moment, just breathing. Wyatt's vision is a little spotty, from the shock of the bright fire against the darkness, and he blinks the spots away as Chris breathes soft and slow across from him, his hands still extended over the little makeshift altar. Overhead, the clouds are gathering for a storm - Wyatt can taste the rain in the air.

"Did you feel it?" Wyatt asks, after the immediate moment passes. Chris' hands fall abruptly to his side.

"Yeah," Chris says, a bit hoarsely. "Yeah. I get what you meant now - about the pins and needles."

"Aura magic is intense." The idea is that it stays with you long after the spell is done. Which is why you have to be careful with what herbs you use - a bad blessing can follow you much longer than a good one. "This one will work, though. You'll see."

"Yeah." Chris grips his arm, right above where his soul mark is. Wyatt has a sudden sense memory of him from years ago - they were six, maybe seven - clutching his arm like that as they sat together on the floor of their bedroom, listening to the sounds of their mother and the aunts, talking in the attic above them. It took their parents an absurdly long time to realize that Wyatt and Chris could hear almost everything they said through the vents, no matter where they were in the house. Many, many nights were spent that way - on the floor, curtains drawn shut, crystals in every corner of the room, Wyatt's orb shield shimmering around them, pressed shoulder to shoulder against the wall, _listening._ Waiting to hear a crash, or the sound of spellwork. The jangle of orbs, the shouted cry of a vanquishing spell. Chris was never scared - he was the one who would do the reassuring, on those nights. He'd analyze the sounds for Wyatt - to comfort him. But it never worked. Wyatt was always terrified.

Maybe that's what Chris really meant about freedom. Wyatt's already got the worst case scenario, right there on his ankle. The rest of his life is an open-ended question, just waiting to be filled in. But Chris doesn't understand what that feels like, to _not know_ \- to be let off the hook, in a family that's never been spared it - what the hell does that mean? Where's that reassuring _path_ that everyone talks about so much in their family? The destiny, the fate? Wyatt's got a sword, and a tangled history of prophecies and kidnappings and evil pseudo-aunts and other what-have-you nonsense, but what does that all add up to, at the end of the day? A black rose, and that's it. It takes Wyatt's breath away, sometimes - not the loss, but the _potential._

But it always looks easier from the other side. Chris' question might have an answer, but it's a foreboding one - no wonder he's been obsessing. Wyatt hopes, and prays, sometimes. Chris deserves every happiness and then some, on top of it. But the world doesn't always work well for good people, and Wyatt just. He _worries._

Two kinds of hope: that something will turn out right, and the other - that something will happen at all. Wyatt's not sure which one's easier. (They really are a matched set.)

"Mom's gonna kill us either way," Chris says finally, breaking the heavy silence. Wyatt blinks, his vision finally returning - and groans out loud at the heavy, scorched black mark on the concrete patio. "We probably should've seen that one coming."

"It didn't do that with mine," Wyatt protests.

"Vervain is potent," Chris says simply. He picks up the sweet grass braid, only slightly singed. The smell is much more pungent now, amplified by the magic. Chris will keep it under his pillow for three nights, sleeping with his head directly in the circle, to seal the blessing. Wyatt managed almost four before his own braid flaked apart into pieces in his bedsheets. He had to wash everything twice to get the smell out. "Well. No use in hiding it now."

"She'll take it easier on you because it's your birthday," Wyatt says glumly. "Me, though - I'm dead."

Chris claps him on the shoulder. "I'll tell her I bullied you into it."

Which will definitely work. The thought only makes Wyatt gloomier. "Thanks a lot," he says dryly.

Chris's clap turns into a more friendly gesture, his arm sliding around Wyatt's shoulders. "No," he says, "thank _you,_ Wyatt."

Wyatt bumps him with an elbow, ducking his head. "Happy birthday, bro."

Chris squeezes his shoulder, before pulling away. That's how he's always been: brief, intense, and then gone. But not forever - only briefly, until the rhythm of life brings him back again. Like a sunset.

Next year will change everything, Wyatt knows, with a morose finality. Chris will be on the other side of the country, and Wyatt himself will be somewhere else - completely new, surrounded by strangers. Their parents will annoy them to death by orbing in at odd times to check up on them, and _everyone's_ worried about how Melinda will adjust to being the only one left in the house. Wyatt feels like he's been living this entire year on the edge of a cliff, and now's the moment when he's about to tip off - the weight of falling, before it actually happens, is sometimes worse than the impact. The dread of empty air is much, much scarier than the reality, which is never too much to handle, in retrospect.

Wyatt has found, little by little, that you can fill that empty air up with goodwill, backed up by bravado. Sometimes, that's all you need to get yourself across the canyon.

"Buffy was turned into a vampire in one episode," Wyatt mentions, as they wander back into the house.

Wyatt can feel Chris' eyes rolling, even though his back is turned. "Sure, Wyatt."

"I'm just saying," Wyatt says, "if you're gonna nitpick my jokes then you might as well be accurate."

"You're _exhausting_."

"Thanks, I try," Wyatt says cheerfully.


End file.
